Always the Bad Guy

by Shane Briant

  "Good to meet you, Shane," he said, while burning a hole through me with his black eyes. He loved the effect it had on young actors like me. Disorienting. I knew then that I'd have to come up with a HUGE performance to match him.

  During the rehearsals, I became aware of an odd thing about Jack that I hadn't come across before in other actors. Either he didn't care to much about rehearsals because he knew exactly what he was going to do in the take – regardless of what the actors around him had in mind – or simply found them boring. The result

  performance was a shadow of what was to come in the take. Hence I found it difficult to know how I should respond to him, and had to wait till he dumped his portrayal on me in the actual take, and then take my chances to respond in the moment. I found this perplexing. Don't get me wrong, I had the greatest respect for Jack and found him great to work with – a great pro. However, there are some actors who like to wait for the take, and some who like to rehearse with the other actors and see what they can come up with as a whole. Jack preferred the former approach, and once you're aware of a fellow actor's technique, you can adjust.

  Never annoy Jack between takes!

  By contrast, John Terry's strength lay in his expressive eyes and understated acting. He was the quintessential American heartthrob to look at, and one of the nicest and most intelligent people I've met.

  On the first day of the shoot, Jack and I worked together for several hours, with me trying to match hissteely portrayal. When lunch was called, I thought I'd see what Jack was up to; possibly he was on his own and may have forgotten where the dining facilities were at Pinewood.

  "Are you going to lunch, Jack?" I asked.

  He looked down at me (six foot four stares at six foot!) fixing

  me with 'the look.'

  "Why? Do you want me to buy you lunch?" he growled in 'überbase.'

  I was taken completely by surprise. Was he serious?

  "Er, no. Not at all. I simply wondered if you had friends here at Pinewood," I replied.

  He studied me even more intensely, then growled even deeper.

  "Why, do you want to meet my friends?"

  I had no idea how to respond. We stood there for a good five seconds. Neither of us blinked. Then he broke into a wide grin, and slapped me hard on the shoulder.

  "Just kidding, boy!" he said, and strode off to the dining hall.

  It was an honour to play the son of one of Hollywood's greats; occasionally, if I feel depressed, I still growl the words, 'I am Drogo son of Voltan!' to the winds. It still makes me laugh.

  I watched Jack's one-arm push-ups at the Oscars some years later, and was again amazed at his physical power.

  Jack is remembered also for his one-liners. One was "I'm amazed people read this crap about us – about me most of all."

  When I read this recently I knew I'd have to tread carefully when I wrote about our time together. He'll rise from the dead and say, "What a load of crap, boy!"

  My second favourite was "I used to be six foot four. Now that I'm old, I slouch. So, I'm six foot three."

  One last thing. Jack told me this, and I think it's something every aspiring actor should know. Never ever flip through an unread script and count the lines.

  "The amount of lines means nothing, Shane," he told me once. "It's what you don't say that counts. You understand what I'm saying?"

  He was one major bad guy! One of the best. He inspired me.

  As a footnote, when the film opened I well remember taking my two beautiful nieces to the Odeon Marble Arch for a matinée. It wasn't a Hammer Film so they were allowed to see the film with an adult. Tash was about nine, and Rosie about seven, and both were excited about seeing 'Uncle Shane' in a movie. When we arrived, I bought the best seats and went up to the dress circle, which I immediately saw was empty – not one patron to be seen. As we sat in the front row, Tash and Rosie took a look downstairs. I shifted awkwardly in my seat – there were perhaps just fifty people in the entire cinema. The girls couldn't have been nicer, or more adult about it – I'm certain they felt my embarrassment. This is what Rosie wrote in a school essay, titled 'My Favourite Relative.'

  Ice cream with Tash and Rosie after the cinema. Heaven!

  'Once we went to one of Shane's films in a huge cinema near Marble Arch. It was virtually empty and as we went down the steps, we pretended it was really full saying things like, "Gosh, I don't think we'll be able to find a seat! And "What a sell-out!"'

  Tash and Rosie are the best – I love them to death! And now I'm reunited after many years with my nephew Toby. Racecar driver and financier – good combination. So now I have seven great nieces and nephews.

  One last thing about Jack Palance. He said something once that I have always found funny because over the years I've worked on many very ordinary films.

  "I go see maybe seven films a year at the most, and since I only go to see the best, it follows that I rarely see my own."

  Riding again in "Hawk the Slayer."

  'LADY CHATTERLEY,' 'EMMANUELLE,' MEL BROOKS &

  PARIS.

  'Catalyst' is a wonderfully expressive word. There are moments in everyone's life where something happens that'll change your life. You usually meet your soul partner by sheer chance, and years later you can't imagine what life you would have lived if you hadn't met them. In my mother's case the catalyst that changed her life was the onset of the Second World War. No WW2, and I doubt she would have married my father in such a hurry. Although I still know very few of the intimate reasons for their personal unhappiness, there's no doubt that many people made snap decisions during the war years because they were afraid they or their partner might die soon.

  I've had three personal catalysts; being introduced to Kit Adeane when I was thirteen – without her love and help I would have stood no chance of making anything of my life; meeting Wendy on a tennis court in Battersea – we've stood the test of time and are still so happy to be together; and finally, landing the role of Sir Clifford Chatterley in the film of D.H. Lawrence's novel in 1980.

  "Lady Chatterley's Lover," was the brainchild of the two famous Israeli producers, Menahem Golan and Yoram Globus; executives in charge of The Cannon Group. They made over two hundred films over the years. Their strategy was to make a serious film, follow it with a couple of money-spinners, then assemble another stunning cast and produce another serious film. One such film was 'That Championship Season,' with Bruce Dern, Robert Mitchum, Martin Sheen, and Paul Sorvino.

  I admit this is pure gossip, but I heard from various sources that 'Chatterley' came about because of the following idea. Golan and Globus looked for a sexy classic script, and then hired the current sexist woman in movies, engaged the director of the sexiest film made during the past decade, looked around for the sexiest Englishman around – not me – and then topped up the cast with English actors who knew their craft.

  So they came up with 'Lady Chatterley's Lover,' the most shocking novel of its time, Sylvia Kristel was hired to play Constance as she'd acquired an incredibly huge fan base after her 'Emmanuelle' films, Just Jaeckin was hired as director because he had directed 'Emmanuelle,' and finally they hired Nicholas Clay, fresh from worldwide accolades for his performance of Lancelot in John Boorman's film 'Excalibur,' and finally, they cast some reputable English-speaking actors to make it all work. I was lucky enough to be one of them, together with Ann Mitchell and Elizabeth Spriggs. The finishing touch was to re-voice Sylvia, because she had a pronounced Belgian accent and didn't sound much like Connie Chatterley at all.

  How could they lose money, provided the screenplay was good – and it was. Golan and Globus thought they had the perfect exotic movie cocktail, made even sweeter by hiring Stanley, 'The Deer Hunter,' Myers to compose the score.

  During the weeks between being cast as the crippled Clifford and the start of principal photography I did my best to lose as much weight as possible so that my legs would look like match

  sticks when out of the wheelchair. I think I
lost over a stone and a half by the time we began filming. Part of the rehearsal period was devoted to learning how to drive the period-motorized wheelchair that I would use in the film. To put it bluntly, it was a bastard. The motor was far too powerful. The engine had several gears as well as a habit of slipping between them at all the worst times, and the clutch had a movement of about one millimetre from 'engaged' to 'free.' Not only that, but the chair had a top speed of almost thirty miles an hour – and it had a mind of it's own, always trying to attain at full throttle. Most of the wheelchair scenes involved a speed of around four miles an hour, so invariably the chair and I were always in conflict. It was like having an uncontrollable cracksnorting Great Dane on a tight leash.

  During the first week we shot the pre-war scene where Sir Clifford, Master of the Hunt, challenges his German friend Anton to a race home across the estate. Thanks to Billy Dillon, Jane's father, I felt reasonably secure. He'd taught me how to ride while I was at University. I knew from bitter experience what it was like when a horse falls on your leg.

  On the day, we mounted up. It was autumn and the rain had been unrelenting for days. This was our first fine day, but the ground was very boggy. I was introduced to the real Master of the Enfield Hunt and his son. The latter told me, en passant, that they were no longer hunting because the conditions were proving too dangerous. This filled me with confidence, as you can imagine.

  Another problem was that the Master of the Hunt should look like the most accomplished rider, and I certainly wasn't that. However, I'd told Just and both producers, Frenchman Andre Djaoui and Chris Pearce, that I could 'ride very well' so I had to get on with it and show no fear!

  Within ten minutes one of the horses belonging to a real huntsman decided to bolt and threw his rider. Though the rider was not injured, I knew these things could happen to anyone – even to a regular member of the hunt.

  The day went well and by mid afternoon I was quite confident. There was just the last shot of the day to come; one that Just had been looking forward to. They had the camera down low, locked onto the back of a camera car. The idea was to drive the car down the two-mile elm tree-lined drive that lead from the road up to Wrotham Park. The main building is a beautiful Palladian house that had featured in over thirty-seven film and television productions, including 'Sense and Sensibility,' 'Vanity Fair,' and 'Gosford Park.' In this scene we see Sir Clifford racing his German friend home. Anthony Head played the German. The angle Just wanted was one looking directly upwards at the underside of the horses' heads, with Anthony and me leaning over the camera, low and intense. The speed Just wanted was "break neck speed please Schmucky."

  I have to say I thought the idea to be rather dangerous as the horses would be arching forward with each stride right over the Panavision camera lens, and if they stumbled they'd come crashing down on the metal. With me on top. I shared my reservations with Just. He simply laughed.

  "Hey, Schmucky," he replied; that was his affectionate nickname for me during the shoot. "Is not danger. It's a pièce de gateaux!" he replied – he liked his bilingual jokes.

  I then had my usual stroke of non-genius and offered him a challenge.

  "Okay Just. You get on that horse and show me. You do it? I do it."

  Just stared at me for a second or two, then jumped up on my horse.

  As he cantered easily back to the starting mark, and the camera car backed up, the second assistant director confided in me. "Not the smartest of moves, Shane. You know Just was a jump jockey in France for ten years before he became a director?" My heart sank. No I didn't know. But a deal was a deal.

  Just galloped like the wind, urging the horse's head right over the camera. He was perfect.

  "Now you, Schmucky!" Just said, jumping down lightly.

  Well, we did it eventually. Quite a few takes. I was terrified. I'm not sure how Anthony felt, but I managed to keep a smile on my face – albeit a terrified rictus – as we pounded along.

  The ball scene in 'Lady Chatterley's Lover.'

  We had a great supporting cast, featuring Elizabeth Spriggs as Lady Eva – a character she turned into a female Oscar Wilde, and Ann Mitchell – a very talented actress whose career was to surge forward very soon.

  Robert Fraisse was director of photography, and what brilliant work he achieved; the picture should have won him an Oscar for photography. Fraisse's work has always been outstanding; 'Seven Years in Tibet' with Brad Pitt, and 'Enemy at the Gates' with Jude Law and Ed Harris. He made the already beautiful Sylvia look

  extraordinarily lovely. In an early scene the declaration of war is announced during a ball given by Sir Clifford. It was a lavish scene – one I loved. Sylvia and I (and all the extras) danced all day. Just as well it was a waltz because, as Bob Fosse knows, I don't dance!

  Convincing an audience that you are crippled isn't as easy as it sounds. Audiences watch you closely so they can point to any movement in limbs that should have none.

  I was determined not to make that mistake, so I came up with an idea – I would try to convince myself that I had no feeling in my legs all day, regardless of whether I was in my chair, in bed, or transferring from one to the other. The hardest scene physically for me was where I wake up one night and Connie is nowhere to be found. She's out with Mellors of course! Hoping against hope that she's asleep in her own bed, I struggle into my chair, trundle it to the bottom of the stairs, flop out of the chair and pull myself up the stairs to the first floor.

  Climbing the stairs without using legs. 'Lady Chatterley's Lover.'

  Now here's the thing, I could have cheated and asked Just where he was thinking of cutting to the close-up. In this way, I'd know when I could brace myself with my legs. But I didn't want to

  show on my face, so I did it all by pulling myself up using the banisters. It was tough but I think it pays off in the film. I was really sweating, and really gasping – no acting necessary!

  They referred to Wendy as 'The jolly brown Australian!'

  In some ways it was odd working with Sylvia because the dialogue came back at me with a Belgian accent, which was perplexing and threw me a bit. But it had been decided that Sylvia would be dubbed, and this was fine with her, so that was a done deal. Other than that problem, there weren't any. She was always a pleasure to be around and she made me laugh every day – hugely. Sometimes, she became tired. I could understand why, as she was in almost every scene. So I'd tell her it was fine if she took it easy when it came to my close-ups; she could lie down and recover. At such times, I'd speak to a wooden pole with a gaffer-taped black cross to denote where Sylvia's eyes would have been. The reason I did this is simple. I've always thought it best not to expect your fellow actor to be there for your close-ups. Most directors insist on it. However, if the actor is too tired or lacks enthusiasm, their presence is self-defeating. I personally believe one's off-camera performance should be every bit as sharp as one's own close-up. It's only fair.

  Just Jaeckin was always the joker.

  One afternoon it began to pour with rain. Because we were really pushed for time we couldn't stop filming. We had a massive exterior scene to complete and it was coming down like cats and bulldogs.

  This proved no problem to Jaeckin and Fraisse – they simply hoisted a fifty-foot tent, took out all the sides, lit the scene from underneath the tarp, and continuity made a note to loop all the dialogue later. It was the most bizarre afternoon – the actors could hardly hear each other for the pounding rain. We could smell it. But we were supposed to think 'sunny.' I challenge anyone to see flaws when you watch the film – Fraisse is a genius!

  The gorgeous Sylvia Krystel in 'Lady Chatterley's Lover.

  We had a very good-looking assistant director on the set who caught Sylvia's eye in a big way. She was single at the time and asked me to ask the young man if he'd like to join her at her hotel one evening for a few drinks. I asked her why she couldn't ask him herself and she replied that she'd rather I asked him.